


craving; satisfaction; anticipation

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Morning Sex, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:22:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After an early morning, Sam indulges himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winchestersinthedrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/gifts).



> Originally posted on my tumblr, zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com, on September 30, 2016.

The thing is, is it’s been a little while. Case after case fell into their laps, one right after the other, so it feels like months since they’ve really gotten to be home, in the bunker. Sam’s working on a translation that he’s had spread out on his table in the library since—he doesn’t even know when. Since September, probably. Now it’s two weeks past Thanksgiving and it’s about fourteen degrees outside, a blizzard smothering the Midwest in white, and he’s been up since seven, because—well. Because it’s been months since he did anything but dig graves and burn bones and decapitate smug asshole vampires, and he does actually like doing the research. It’s comforting, in its way.

Fourteen degrees outside and it’s not exactly a furnace down here, but it’s quiet. Dean sighed when Sam’s alarm went off, a few hours ago, turned right over in bed and groaned into the pillow about Sam’s _fetish_ , and—it’s not a fetish. He just—he likes it. He turns a page, settles his makeshift paperweight of his tablet over the ancient, crackly vellum. He’s not great with Vedic Sanskrit, but he’s starting to figure out some of the intricacies.

“You still working on your word search?”

Sam glances at his watch before he looks up. “You actually made it out of bed before ten o’clock, I’m proud.”

Dean’s leaning in the archway down to the war room, one hand in the pocket of his robe and a cup of coffee in the other while he shrugs, unconcerned. “I got a day off, what can I say,” he says, easy. “You’re the one with the fetish.”

Sam sits back in his chair, says, “It’s not a—” but he just shakes his head, a smile tugging at his mouth as Dean walks over. He has to shove the text out of the way as Dean plants his ass on the edge of the table, right next to him. His hair’s a mess, a little flat on one side and fluffed on the other, his robe falling open and showing off his bare legs under his boxer briefs, the ratty-soft undershirt that’s actually Sam’s.

“It’s a Saturday, and you got up at seven to come squint over some Saudi Arabian text about birds or something,” Dean says. He nudges Sam’s knee with his bare one, takes a swallow of coffee. “It’s a fetish.”

He’s not smiling, but there’s that crinkle at the corner of his eye, his face calm and content and open. “Okay, well, first of all, it’s from Pakistan,” Sam says. He catches Dean’s closer knee in his left hand, curling his fingers into the warm hollow behind it. “And I don’t want to mess up your whole thing here, dude, but it’s actually Tuesday.”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, and shrugs. “We don’t have to be anywhere, right? That counts as Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. He slides his thumb over the inside curve of Dean’s knee, that place where the hair goes soft and fine. Dean takes another swallow of coffee, and he’s just—he’s just sitting there, but it’s getting to Sam, somehow. Neither of them are hurt, and they’ve got nothing to do but what they choose—and it might be freezing outside, they might be snowed in by noon, but in here it’s warm enough and safe, and Dean’s just letting Sam touch him, he’s sitting here and he’s still got that sleep-soft blurring to him, his mouth damp with coffee, and like that it’s just so easy to catch the back of Dean’s neck in his other hand and pull him down and to muffle the startled noise he makes with his own mouth. He scrapes his teeth over Dean’s lower lip, soft, and Dean’s mouth opens against his, easy as that—like, all Sam ever has to do is ask, and he’d get Dean’s tongue, his lips, his breath warm and mingling with Sam’s.

It tugs, low in Sam’s belly, and he pulls back for a second just to look—and yeah. Dean’s still soft and open, his eyes sleepy-dark when he blinks, looking down where Sam’s sitting in his chair, and Sam wants—he wants—

He stands up right into Dean’s space and Dean’s legs spread, automatic, but that’s not—he takes Dean around the hips and drags him a foot to the right so he won't knock over the lamp, his robe making it easy to move him over the slick mahogany, and when Dean says, “What—Sam—” it’s easy, still, to kiss him again, to lick past his lips and taste where he mixed a little whiskey into his coffee, to bite at his jaw so his stubble prickles against Sam’s skin, to push him back a little and splay the robe open, to curl his fingers into the boxer-briefs and haul them down and sit back into his chair and just—look, for a second there just to look, at his brother’s pale skin made gold by the amber lamps he sits between, the heavy muscles in his thighs flexing as he shifts on the table, his dick still mostly soft between his legs. That’s okay, because Sam steps down on the underwear still caught over Dean’s ankles and shoves them off, he knocks Dean back with one hand and catches his left knee in the other, holds his leg wide and open so he can bite at the white-soft inside of that thigh, quick, just enough to make Dean gasp before Sam leans in and sucks him down, in one move, down to the root, and the sound Dean makes, then—

Oh, and—it’s been a while. It’s been a while since anything more than quick fumbles, or a quick fuck between hunts, in one of those dingy motel rooms that are unfamiliar to them, now. This is—Dean’s thighs spread around Sam’s shoulders and he drops down to his elbows, groaning, but Sam’s not paying attention to that so much as he is to the salt, the smell, the tender softness that’s going away, fast, but not so fast he can’t savor it. He sucks once, hands sliding up Dean’s legs, before he pulls off, licks his lips. His mouth’s watering, already. He ducks down a little to nose at Dean’s balls, to pull one into his mouth—careful, because Dean’s sensitive here (and his thigh jerks under Sam’s hand, there’s a wounded noise from somewhere above Sam’s head), but—Sam licks against the sac, broad flat of his tongue, and then pulls away to lick up the shaft, to suck a hard kiss against the base with his nose brushing trimmed-close hair, and then Dean’s hard all the way, gasping, and Sam licks up over the head and spreads his mouth there and just holds, jaw wide, because he’s waiting for that first burst of flavor—

“Oh, shit, Sammy—" Dean says, and—and there it is, precome thick already on Sam’s tongue and he slides down, fast, starts up a rhythm, almost dizzy he wants so much. He loves this, is all. He loves the way Dean’s knees are already clamped against his sides, loves the heady dark smell of it, the bleachy salt of him, the way when Sam screws his mouth as far down as he can and the heavy thick head is threatening his throat that Dean makes _that_ particular sound, that punched-gut groan, so deep that Sam echoes it. He sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, pulses his tongue along the underside, cups Dean’s damp balls in one hand and puts the other on Dean’s stomach, so he can feel the quivering where Dean wishes he could thrust, but he can’t—because the angle’s wrong and because Sam’s holding his legs down, but also because he’s just—he’s letting Sam do what he wants, he’s laying there and he’s groaning at the ceiling and he’s open, for Sam, his skin where it’s pale and his straining dick and his pounding blood and his voice and his breath and his bones are Sam’s, they’re all Sam’s, and Sam slips his thumb up over the tightening package of Dean’s balls up to the sticky-slick shaft and screws his mouth down to meet it, swallows with his bottom lip against his own skin, and then he pulls up, swallowing harder, and he gets his lips around the head and he sucks hard and Dean says _oh god, oh, fuck fuck fuck_ and then he’s unloading onto Sam’s tongue, hard spurts that hit the back of Sam’s throat, that spill over his lips and chin when he pulls back, gasping, his lips sore and buzzing like he’s drunk. 

He leans his forehead against Dean’s sweaty hip, for a few seconds. Dean’s knees unclamp from his sides, slowly, and a hand combs through his hair, tucks it behind his ear. He takes a deep breath and licks his lips, then presses a quick kiss to the thin warm skin before he picks his head up.

Dean’s propped up on one elbow, his other hand still in Sam’s hair. He looks—dazed, a little. His eyes are blown-out dark, his mouth bitten-red, and Sam—Jesus, he’s hard. He pushes a wrist over his mouth, his chin, catching the come he couldn’t swallow, and Dean groans, again, sits up more and props himself on his hands. His shirt’s still rucked halfway up his chest and the robe’s splayed out around him, but he’s mostly relaxed as he plants one foot on Sam’s thigh. Sam leans back in his chair. They look at each other.

“Was that ‘cos of my fetish comment?” Dean says, after a second, and Sam laughs. He leans over and grabs Dean’s abandoned coffee—lukewarm, now, but it’ll do, and he gulps it down.

“Hey,” Dean says, eyes heavy. His knee tips out wide, and Sam licks his lips, puts the empty mug down. “Get your own coffee.”

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/151179390044/craving-satisfaction-anticipation)


End file.
